The Face Behind The Mask

42

Patrice watched the scenery go by as Lloyd drove out of the city. They passed Pittsburgh International Airport and continued on the highway for about twenty miles before they crossed the Jennings Randolph Bridge into East Liverpool, Ohio. It was a remnant of a town that seemed to have been abandoned decades ago once local industry shuttered its doors. A small population of residents lived in wood frame houses lining narrow ribbons of streets that climbed the hills overlooking the river. 

They slowed at the crest of a hill, the car lurching to a stop on a narrow street in front of a humble neighborhood home. Lloyd craned his neck. "This the right address? I don't see a car."

Patrice replied, "I don't see a garage." She checked her phone. "This is the address." She glanced back at the home.

The house stood on a sloping corner lot. It was an older home that probably hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the Reagan administration. A vintage air conditioner leaned out of a second-story window, hanging on for dear life. The small overgrown yard was encircled with a rusted chain link fence meandering along the property line.

Under an oatmeal sky, the detectives got out of the car, eyes on the windows of the home. Patrice unbuttoned her jacket and rested her hand on her holstered firearm. She and her partner advanced slowly up the alleyway running alongside the building, both on high alert for signs of unwelcoming occupants.

Lloyd said, "So the O'Shea girl's body was found in Beaver Creek State Park, right?"

"Yep."

"That's less than fifteen miles from here." They passed a sagging bare wood structure that looked condemned, at least abandoned. A stiff wind whipping down from the hilltop would probably put it out of its misery. "And the second girl?" he said, his cheeks beginning to flush.

"Maybe twenty miles or so further east."

He looked over his shoulder at their parked car and then back at the Schmitzer home. "So both girls were found in wooded areas within a twenty-mile radius?"

"Just like the McKenzie girl."

They made their way to the back of the house. In a casual tone, Lloyd said, "Thought I saw that curtain move—"

She finished his sentence. "First floor left side."

They watched the house from behind a neighbor's pickup truck parked across the street from the Schmitzer residence. Neither said a word for a minute before Lloyd added, "Somebody's watching. Guess they're not coming out."

"Not voluntarily," she said.

They stood scanning the windows before walking back to their car, watching for glints of gun metal from inside the house.

Lloyd checked the time. "C'mon, guys. Don't keep us waiting."

Right on cue, two East Liverpool police cruisers ascended the hill and parked across the street. Two uniformed officers got out of the first vehicle and met the detectives in the road.

"I'm Sergeant Wilson," said a heavyset middle-aged man in uniform. "I believe we spoke this morning." Patrice watched him approach her partner, his hand outstretched. Lloyd shook his hand. The sergeant gestured to his partner. "This is Officer Dunlop."

"Nice to meet you." Dunlop offered a friendly smile. "How's life in Pittsburgh?"

Lloyd smiled. "Keeps us busy."

"This is the Schmitzer residence, right?" Patrice asked.

"According to our records," said Dunlop.

"You ever been up here before?"

Both officers shook their heads. "Don't think I could pick them out of a line-up," said Wilson.

"Do you know how many occupants?" Patrice said, turning her eyes toward the house.

"Pretty sure it's just Velma Schmitzer and her boy."

"Walter," Lloyd said.

The sergeant nodded.

"Let's find out who's home," said Patrice.

"Looks like nobody," said the sergeant. "I don't see a car."

"Somebody's definitely in there."

Wilson hiked back across the street to the second patrol car and leaned on the roof. "You two. Take a walk around back and see if anyone comes out of the house the back way."

The uniformed officers, a young female and an even younger male climbed out of the patrol car. She seemed a little too energetic and her partner looked like he was thrilled to have a reason to get out of the vehicle. They headed for the back of the house.

Patrice pulled open the Schmitzer's metal gate and proceeded the short distance to the front door accompanied by her partner, his eyes on the second-floor windows. Sergeant Wilson and Officer Dunlop followed. Patrice drew a deep breath and knocked.

No answer. She noticed the skeleton of an umbrella lying beside the house, a fluttering flag of stained pink cloth clinging to one of the bent metal arms.

She rapped louder and opened her jacket, her hand at her sidearm. "Walter Schmitzer!" She knocked again.

Attracted by the police activity, a middle-aged man and a woman across the street, came out onto their porch. The man sucked at a cigarette and watched with narrow eyes through the smoke. A little caramel-colored dog charged out of the house scurrying about and yapping before the woman scooped him up and held the dog in the crook of her arm.

"Walter Schmitzer!" Patrice shouted, raising her fist to knock again. She took a quick step backward when the door swung open.

A silver-haired woman stood in the doorway, a scowl hanging over her jutting jaw. She tightened her cardigan around her lanky body. "What's your business with Walter?"